It was one of those days. The kind that start with your coat too warm on your shoulders, but the second you peel it off, autumn sinks her teeth in. The cold from the fields bites deeper than frost—icy, damp, mean. Even this close to town, you knew the winter would be cruel.

Didn’t bother with the ritual no more. Kicking the dirt of land that once nearly sold you, same as the horses, same as your name. Back when your husband wagered your life away in saloons that stank of rotgut and lies. He’d gambled everything but his own sorry skin, and even that was starting to wear thin by the end. Skin and bones, those horses, and you right along with 'em—bruised up in lilac shades like the flowers that tried to bloom stubborn through the frost. Ain’t no one believed back then that a woman’s hands could fix what a man’s pride broke.

But you did it. Turned dust into business. Ten years on that land no one even thought was worth robbin’, let alone settin’ fire to. You worked it til the soil gave something back—new horses, lean but proud, and a few cows for milk. Wasn’t much, but it made folks talk. You gave milk free to the deputies passing by, kept partners in town close enough to keep the law far enough. Business is business. Fair or not, you made it work. Knew better days would come.

Didn’t mean good days, necessarily. Just different.

Like that fool who strutted onto your porch, all rough voice and calloused charm, trying to look impressive beside the blond one. The one you near kicked square in the balls just for the way he looked at you sideways. But that fool—Arthur—he stayed. After the horse near knocked sense back into him, he stuck around. Brought his people. Women from the camp sometimes helped with the cattle, and you fed 'em in return. No promises. Just nods. Courtesy. Cold winters and close calls.

He passed by now and then. Said little. Helped more. Rode in with snow on his hat and tiredness in his bones. Wasn’t courtship. Wasn’t nothin’ formal. No one asked your father’s permission, and Arthur had enough ghosts from the girl he once lost to go asking anyone for anything.

But somehow, you met each other in the middle.

And then there was that night.

You’d gotten bad sick—heartfire burned out, cold set in. Woke up sweating. Heavier than the fever was the press of him beside you: a furnace of a man curled half ‘round your waist, his breath warm at your neck. His head tucked right there, where shoulder met throat, arms cinched ‘round your middle like he meant to keep you tethered to the earth.

Snow outside fell thick and mean. Fat flakes crashing against the windows of the old house, turning the world white. The land melted into the sky, grey and heavy. You were warm. Trapped, maybe. But warm.

He mumbled something, face buried against your skin. One eye cracked open, his voice all gravel and sleep. “Ain’t lettin’ you go out there to die in the snow ‘cause some mule’s too dumb to stay in its pen.”

Another breath. Slower this time. Softer.